


And wild and sweet the words repeat

by mistyzeo



Series: Family Way [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Daddy!Watson, Family Fluff, Intercrural Sex, Kid Fic, M/M, Morning Sex, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson and Maggie are headed off to a Christmas Eve midnight mass without Holmes.  Holmes objects, on principle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And wild and sweet the words repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to me! As a gift on this auspicious day, I offer this saccharine Christmas Eve ficlet. It takes place in the "Family Way" 'verse, the reading of which may address any initial concerns (Watson has a kid?!). :D Many thanks to passeriform, overthemoon, and 1electricpirate for their beta help, and to tweedisgood for assuaging my final fears about How Do Victoriana.
> 
> Enjoy. Thanks for being great. I love you. Merry Christmas.
> 
> Title from "I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day", text by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

"We're going to a service," Watson said, knotting his muffler around his neck.

I sat up straight in my chair.  "You're going _where_?"

"Holmes, I've told you at least six times this week."

"At this hour?" I asked.  "Why on _earth_?"

"It's Christmas Eve," Watson said.  "It's the midnight— never mind, old boy.  We'll be back by three."

"Wait, I'm not going with you?"  I put down my monograph on snails and frowned at him.

"Not with the fuss you're putting up."

Margaret Watson, newly six years old, looked up at me out of her beautiful fur-lined hood, and smiled.  "It's the baby Jesus' birthday tomorrow, Holmes," she said.

"So I've heard," I said, getting up.  I hurried into my bedroom— that is, the bedroom I discreetly share with the dear Doctor— and exchanged my dressing gown for a waistcoat and jacket.  Then I exchanged that for a nicer waistcoat and jacket, and emerged again to find Watson and Maggie halfway down the stairs to the front door.  I threw on my overcoat, snatched a muffler from the coat rack, and put on my hat.

"Oh," Watson said, when I slammed the door of two-hundred-and-twenty-one behind me and nearly fell down the front step in my haste.  "You really are coming with us."

Maggie was giggling at me.

"Hush," I said to her, pointing a stern finger in her direction that only made her giggling worse.  "Yes, I certainly am."

Watson eyed me skeptically, but then he shrugged and took Maggie's mittened hand.  "All right," he said, "as long as you behave yourself."

The air had grown considerably colder since dusk, when I had arrived home after a day spent scouring the city high and low for Christmas presents.  I lived with the two people in all of London best suited to and most deserving of gifts, and yet it had seemed an eternity before I had been able to find something appropriate.  I wanted to buy Watson all kinds of ridiculous things: beautiful cufflinks and silver cigarette cases and the most handsome pocket watch I had ever seen.  I wanted Maggie to have elaborate dolls and intricate train sets and all the books she could devour, and I hadn't been able to choose.  Luck and good timing had brought me into contact with an acquaintance in the West End who was able to procure for me tickets to a Russian ballet, to be performed only on the following night.  The story, I was told, was of a little girl's adventure with a prince through a dream land of fairies and Christmas sweets— or something like that— which sounded just whimsical enough for Maggie.  Once I had bought the tickets, deciding on the other gifts had been simplicity itself.

I took Maggie's other hand when she offered it to me, and we walked three abreast down the cold, empty street.  The lights along Baker Street and Oxford Street were burning brightly, casting little pools of gold onto the pavement.  Every time we came upon one, which was often, Maggie hopped into the center of it with both feet.

Eventually, Watson gave her a tug on the hand and said, "Come on, love, we've got a ways to go and I don't want to be late."

We were on New Bond Street by then, and all of the nearest churches at which we might have enjoyed the First Eucharist of Christmas were well behind us.  I realized I hadn't the slightest idea where we were going.  If Watson had not been exaggerating and had indeed informed me six times what his intention was, I had missed every occasion of it.  It was very possible that I had dismissed this information intentionally, church services holding little to no import to me save when they had a direct bearing on a case.  My upbringing had been decidedly agnostic, and my adulthood almost entirely atheistic.  But I kept that quiet, for the sake of those around me.

We made a slight detour onto St James's Street, and then passed through the park.  Maggie was still sprightly and alert, despite the hour and the distance we had travelled, and I spared a moment to imagine her as she had been when I'd first set eyes on her: in her father's arms, her patent leather shoes barely the size of my palm.  She was a picture in her blue coat and white boots, her curls escaping the confines of her hood and framing her cherubic face, her mittens lovingly hand-knitted by our landlady.  She was keeping my hand warm where she held it, and she held it tightly indeed.

Once we had crossed the Birdcage Walk, the streets became more and more populated, late-night Mass attendees all headed the same direction.  Watson increased his pace slightly, dragging both Maggie and myself along behind him like so many ducklings on a string.  We joined the throng, and by now it was clear to me that we were headed for Westminster Abbey.

The abbey was filling quickly as we made our way through the massive front doors, and Watson led us to the first pew he could find.  He helped Maggie out of her hood and unbuttoned her coat, but the room was not yet warm enough to merit divesting ourselves of our outer garments entirely.  We were far from the altar, and were shortly blocked in by other people, but Watson did not seem distressed at all.  The air was thick with the aroma of pine boughs and cinnamon and candles, and full of familiar, cheerful greetings.  Someone called out to Watson and he raised a hand and smiled in acknowledgement.  Maggie was taking it all in with wide eyes, studying her surroundings with a kind of deliberate attention that made me proud.

It was a quarter to eleven when the service finally started.  The abbey was packed to the rear, but the hush that fell when the minister stood up at the front was absolute.  I rose and sat at the appropriate moments and let the words wash over me, not quite absorbing them.  When the singing began, I closed my eyes and listened to Watson's steady baritone and Maggie's enthusiastic piping.  The tunes of the carols were familiar but their words were lost on me.

Maggie noticed, and in the next period of sitting and listening to preaching, she leaned over and whispered, "Don't you know Silent Night, Holmes?"

"I do not," I whispered back.  "You sing it well enough for both of us."

She smiled and said, "I can teach it to you, if you like."

"Perhaps tomorrow," I murmured.

"Daddy said you didn't want to come tonight."

I frowned and glanced at him.  He was facing resolutely forward, giving the appearance of listening to the sermon, but I could tell his attention was on us.

"I don't usually go to church," I said, "but tonight is special, isn't it?"

"Do you believe in God, Holmes?"

"Maggie," Watson said, "hush."

"But Holmes was—"

"Holmes, hush," Watson added.  There was a twinkle in his eye when he looked at me, and I stifled a smile.

Everyone got up to sing again then, and the moment vanished.  I stood obediently, and Maggie slipped her hand into mine once more.

When it was over, and we sat, she took Watson's hand and mine and folded them together in her lap.

I went still.  We were surrounded by hundreds, nay, thousands of people, and a child would be our undoing.

"Not now, love," Watson said, without looking at us.  But he gave my fingers a squeeze before he let go.

Maggie looked up at me, confusion marring her lovely, innocent face.  I put a finger to my lips before she could ask what the matter was.  "Later," I mouthed.

She didn't look satisfied.  I fished my pocket watch out of my pocket and handed it to her.  Obediently distracted, she pressed the lever and the case sprang open, revealing it to be nearly half-past twelve on Christmas morning.  I raised an eyebrow at her, and she grinned.  A tug on Watson's cuff compelled him to look too, and he nodded in satisfactory amazement.  How late it was, indeed.  I hoped she'd sleep long and deeply after this.  There were some things I wanted to do to her father on Christmas morning that I shouldn't be imagining in a house of God.

There were a few more carols to be sung, a few more psalms to be read, and a last moment of prayer.  The room went silent again, and I watched Watson as he bowed his head, eyes shut and lips moving faintly.  Maggie mimicked the adults around her, looking down at her folded hands, but she was fidgeting.  

Then the service was over.  We got up and put our coats back on, and stood to chat with the people around us.  Watson picked Maggie up and let her stand on the pew seat so that she nearly came up to his shoulder.  A few people recognized me, or us together, and were sure to let Watson know what fans they were of his literature.  My return to London three years earlier was still the occasional topic of conversation, so I was compelled to make my excuses once or twice.

Soon enough the crush of people eased, and we were able to make our way out of the abbey again.

"We should come back here," Watson said, lifting Maggie up onto his hip and securing his grip on her.  "Visit the old poets and monarchs.  When it's not full up.  What do you think, love?"

Maggie nodded, rubbing her cheek against his overcoat.  She was fading fast.

"I'll get us a cab," I said.

"Do you think you can?"

"We can walk a bit if you like," I said, "but she's not the waif she used to be."

"You could take a turn," Watson muttered, following me through the crowd towards the street, "she's your daugh—"  He cut himself off so abruptly it made me turn around to look at him.  "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, embarrassed, dismayed at his own carelessness.  "That— I didn't mean—"

"Of course you did," said I seriously, "and of course she is."

Watson blinked, swallowed hard, and visibly restrained himself from making a move towards me.  Instead, he dropped his gaze deliberately to my mouth and his tongue flickered out to wet his lower lip.  He wanted to kiss me.  I wanted him to do it.  The sentiment behind the signal was almost as good as the real thing.

"Come along," I said, angling my head in the direction of home.  "Hand her over when you get tired.  I'll see if I can get us a cab at the next corner."

I did manage to get us one in Pall Mall, just as Watson started to limp a little, and we rode home in companionable silence.  In the darkness of the cab, I took Watson's hand and pressed it between my own.  Maggie lay quiescent in his arms, her head upon his shoulder, her eyes closed.  The first time I'd kissed him she'd been asleep like this.  I kissed him now, to bring the thought full circle.

When we arrived at Baker Street, I took her from his arms to ease his descent from the cab, and held her as he unlocked the door.  She was heavier than I remembered, but I was determined to get her up the stairs to her little bedroom on the second floor without complaint.  Little girls do grow so quickly.

Watson and I roused Maggie to remove her coat and boots, her dress and slip, and get her unresisting arms into her nightgown.  I stood at the door as Watson tucked her in, but was summoned for a kiss when he stood up.  She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek and murmured, "I hope Father Christmas doesn't wake you up when he comes."

Downstairs in our bedroom, as we undressed, I said to Watson, "I thought we were going to discourage that Father Christmas nonsense."

Watson shrugged out of his shirt and vest, and pulled his nightshirt on before he took his trousers off.  He didn't like to be cold, and it was a charming little move, but it did deprive me of a view of him nude.  "You decided that," he said.  "I'm not going to do anything at all one way or another."

"Tell me honestly," I said, "that none of the gifts out there are labeled ' _from Saint Nicholas'_."

He looked a little sheepish as he folded up his trousers and tucked them away in his lower drawer.

"Oh, Watson, _really_."

"It's magical," he said, crossing the room to me.  He took my shirt off my arms and unfastened my trousers, and the lack of concern with which he performed this action made me smile.  "She's only six, she'll figure it out soon enough."

"Because I'll tell her," said I.

He pinched me on the ribs before I could get my nightshirt on to protect myself.

When we had settled down under the blankets–in the bed that had once been mine and was a touch narrow for two grown men–Watson said softly, "Thank you for coming tonight."

I turned down the lamp and returned to the circle of his arms, my back to his chest.  His right hand rested against my breastbone and his moustache was soft against the nape of my neck.  "Not at all," I said.

"Mary used to like to go," he murmured.  "Christmas Eve and Easter: those were the days she thought were most important."

I lay silent, but I covered his hand with mine.  Mary Watson didn't come up much these days, although she was impossible to ignore in the visage of her daughter.  It didn't hurt as much anymore to hear him talk about her.  She had loved him, and he deserved nothing less.

"Maggie was too young to remember," Watson said.  He pressed a kiss to the back of my shoulder.  "I doubt she'll ever associate going to church with Mary, anyway.  Just me."  I felt him smile.  "And you."

"I'm not going to make a habit of it," I protested.

He laughed softly.  "No," he said, "I wouldn't dare expect that."

+++

It was only a few hours later that dawn was insinuating itself between the curtains and lending a faint glow to the room again.  Watson and I had rearranged ourselves, as we always did, so that I was the one with my arms around him, my chest to his spine, my knees in the comma created by his own.  He grumbled something about the light and buried his face further into the pillows, clearly intent on a further hour or two of sleep, but the clock in the sitting room chimed eight and Maggie might be waking any minute.

The imminence of her arrival didn't stop me from pressing my hips against Watson's backside, nor he from sighing and guiding my wandering hand to the jut of his erection.  I leant up on my elbow and we kissed over his shoulder.  His mouth was wet and warm and a little sour, and I heard myself moan.  I found the hem of his nightshirt and pushed it up around his middle so that I could touch his bare skin.  He was sleep-warm and languid, but his prick jumped in my hand.

I sank down again to kiss and bite at the back of his neck, which made him shudder and squirm and breathe fast and shallow.  I touched him slowly, drawing out his pleasure, until he was grasping at my arse and dragging me against him, yanking at my nightshirt so that it might no longer separate us.  My cock bumped against the backs of his thighs, leaving wet kisses on his skin and making him part his legs in welcome.  I let go of him to reach for the pot of petroleum jelly that resided under the bed.

"If she comes in to wake us up while you're sodomizing me, I'm going to be tremendously upset," Watson said, when my hand returned, slick and questing.

"With me, or with her?" I asked against his ear.

"Let's not find out," he said, guiding me between his thighs instead.  It was no great sacrifice to have him like that.  We groaned together when I took him in hand again, my grip smooth and warm around him as his legs were around me.  I dug my teeth into the blade of his shoulder, and he put a palm on the wall to brace himself against my thrusts.  His breathing was harsh, punctuated by little moans breaking through his composure and catching in his throat.

I felt him tensing, his prick stiffening in my hand, his thighs squeezing tight as he rode the rising wave of his climax.  I bit him again, kissed his neck, whispered encouragement in his ear.  His back arched in its familiar curve, and then he was shuddering and coming over my hand, cursing and praising me all at once.  The feeling of his emission slicking my fingers coupled with the sound of my name in his mouth unspooled my own orgasm and I joined him in ecstasy, spilling myself between his thighs.

I clung to him as I trembled, and he smoothed a hand up and down my side until I had recovered myself.  We parted reluctantly, and I left the furnace-like heat of our bed to fetch something to clean us up with.  Watson's handkerchief was nearest.  He gave me an unamused look when I handed it over, but he used it all the same.

When we were more respectable and less sticky, I climbed back in and cuddled up to him again.  I had barely pulled the blanket back over us when there came the scampering of little feet down the stairs, and then Maggie was rapping gently at the door.  

"Daddy?" she said.  "Holmes?  Are you awake?"

Watson raised an eyebrow significantly.  I shrugged, unashamed.  I'd got what I wanted, hadn't I?  And not a moment too soon.  We rearranged ourselves so that there was a little distance between us, and Watson said, "Come in, love."

Maggie turned the knob and slipped inside, being careful to shut the door after her.  Good girl.  Then she padded barefoot across the room and stood at the side of the bed.

"It's Christmas," she said, in a reverent whisper.

Watson offered her a hand up, and she clambered over me onto the bed, taking up the last available inches in the valley between us.  Watson peppered her with kisses, ruffling her hair and blowing raspberries on her cheeks, and she squealed and giggled and batted him away.

"How did you sleep?" Watson asked, brushing her curls out of her face.

"Good," she said.

"Well," I corrected automatically.

" _Well_ ," she said, with exaggerated care.  

Watson hid a smile.  "Are you hungry?" he asked.

Maggie nodded.

Mrs Hudson would be keeping our breakfast warm by now, waiting for the touch on the bell that would summon her and the plates of hot food up our seventeen steps.  There would already be a fire in the sitting room, built while we still slept.  The tree Watson had insisted upon— only a few feet high, sitting on top of a side table between the windows— would be sparkling in the morning light, and beneath it would be a modest mountain of presents.  In a few hours, we would bundle ourselves into our coats, see Mrs Hudson to the train station, and visit my brother at his rooms in Pall Mall.  We would treat him to dinner at Goldini's and all get just a little drunk.  I remembered the Christmases in the years before my departure from London spent dining with Mycroft in grudging silence at his club and returning to my cold, empty flat.  

Tonight, I had a ballet to look forward to.

"Come on," I said to my two splendid Watsons, "up you get.  Let's go see what Father Christmas brought."


End file.
